UNLIKE THAT DAY 

A  LONG TIME AGO

The tree 
didn’t scream

the day it died, when

the farmer chain sawed it -

slicing it close to the ground -

a clean cut - compared to

what his father felt that day

he was axed - and fell dead -
after many, many hacks.

The pain of winters - cold

cold winters - the standing there
in the sun of so many summers - 
hot hot summers which prepared 
him for this day - the day he died - 
but he knew it was nothing 
compared to those who died 
hung on trees

and to that day the nails were

driven into his hands -

and into his feet - and the spit

remained on his left leg 
till it dried along with his blood

and then he too died,
but then again
there is Spring.

© Andy Costello, Reflections, 2012